


Only Memories Mine

by ExtraPenguin



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Aral jerking Simon's chain, Bitterness, Exhibitionism, M/M, Time Period: Vorkosigan Regency, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8830540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtraPenguin/pseuds/ExtraPenguin
Summary: Aral gives Simon enough material to oust him with.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karanguni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanguni/gifts).



> In actual canon, Jole didn't turn up until the Prime Minister phase, so this must be considered an AU.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, Karanguni!

Simon held up the wall of the Residence. The Emperor's Birthday was winding up: the teenage Gregor had retired for the night, Cordelia having gathered her ducklings for the night and gone to laugh about her other set of ducklings gavotting about the room, playing pretend and trying not to let on that they knew that the others knew that they knew about each others' opinions.

Aral caught his eye and nodded. Time for the (short) briefing on what had happened. This Birthday had been quiet – everyone was finally waking up to the finality of the Regency and wondering whom Gregor would become. Simon predicted an uptick of attempts to influence Gregor.

Simon left quietly and without hassle. Aral would spend longer disentangling himself (on average: 9.489 minutes after the nod, longest: 18.32, shortest: 5.2902) so Simon had lots of time to ensconce himself in the small, secured room he'd appropriated as his Residency office. He elected to lean on the far wall.

Aral soon (9.463 minutes after the nod) swept through the door, his secretary (fling) hot on his heels. “Anything of note, Simon?” Aral asked. “I would like to retire to my bed soon.”

 _And who would you bring with you?_ “A lot of thoughtful people.” (Count Vordrozda, looking speculative.) “For those feasting on the free booze, the night is still young. My report on who puked into which potted plant should be on your desk in the morning.”

Aral snorted. “Ah, no crises. Good. Go sleep, Simon.” He turned and made to leave.

Jole said, “You spent a rather large amount of time watching me, Captain,” accusation hiding behind his quiet voice. Aral froze.

“You are a member of the Lord Regent's household.” _As his secretary, if not his mistress_. “I will observe.” Observe, analyze, report. Obsess.

“It seems to me,” Jole said, “that it would do the Imperium no good if someone were to twig on – _us_ , from your staring.”

“Oh, Simon's observation always has a purpose.” Aral advanced towards Simon. He stopped at half a pace's distance. He hooked two fingers through Simon's collar and pulled. (Days since last touched by a human being: 46. Source of prior touch: Aral Vorkosigan, clapping his shoulder.) Simon yielded and stepped closer.

“Making sure you have scandal enough to dethrone me, should I try to hold on to the Regency?” Aral murmured. “I am glad to see you turn into Gregor's hound. Having the Chief of Imperial Security be the former Lord Regent's dog would be … inconvenient.” Aral turned his hand and gave Simon's throat a gentle squeeze.

Simon had to stay silent, lest his chip ejaculate too-revealing objections all over. He only half managed to choke the moan with which he responded to the pressure exerted by Aral's gloved hand.

Aral took a step back and looked at Simon calculatingly. Jole looked ill at ease, fascinated and horrified simultaneously, like a man watching two groundcars hurtle inexorably towards collision. (Cross-reference: more curious than horrified. Somewhat flushed. Alcohol?)

“See, Oliver,” Aral said, voice soft, “Simon is only doing his job. I don't suppose you have cameras in my bedroom to better capture blackmail material with, Captain?”

“I have multiple cameras in your office,” Simon said. (He squashed the replay the chip tried to show him.)

Jole blushed. Aral looked like the cat that got the canary.

“Ah, but would that be enough? Lieutenant Jole there was wondering about it,” Aral said.

“I would gladly have my reputation destroyed for the good of the Empire,” Jole said.

“What game are you playing, Aral?” Simon demanded. He was being herded. The question was, where to? What did Aral _want_?

Aral ran his fingers down Simon's uniform. “Don't worry, Oliver; I have _lots_ of experience of being observed by Simon.”

Simon tried not to shudder. The chip was having a field day and filing away all this material into the folder for arousing content.

Aral bit on the tips of his glove's fingers and slid his hand free. He pocketed the glove and began unbuttoning Simon's uniform tunic.

The reasonable response would be to step back and declare he was having none of this, but Simon had never been reasonable about Aral Vorkosigan. He leaned forwards.

(Jole was quiet and still, though he had taken at least one step closer to where Aral was. Simon dismissed the chip's concerns for the moment.)

When Aral had Simon's uniform unbuttoned, he pushed it off Simon's shoulders with his still-gloved hand. The ungloved hand rose and immersed itself in Simon's hair (note to self: haircut) – then grasped, and Aral turned Simon around and slammed him into the wall. Perhaps Simon should have resisted. He didn't.

Aral harrumphed, then tied Simon's wrists together with his uniform tunic. (Simon's chip tried to complain about how hard it would be to get rid of the wrinkles. Simon wished he could turn off the infernal contraption.) Simon did not resist when Aral manhandled him onto his desk under Jole's wide-eyed gaze.

“Well, the camera might not have provided a clear enough view, Oliver. I suppose we'd best make sure Simon has enough material to work with.” Aral sat down on _Simon's chair_ and beckoned Jole onto his lap.

“I think you'll have to undress a bit first, sir,” Jole said. “Would you like for me to help you with that?” He – sultrily? – walked towards Aral. Aral swung around the chair. Simon had a side-on view of Jole unzipping Aral's trousers and then stroking Aral's cock. The contrast between black leather glove and slightly red-tinged flesh was – appealing. Aral threw his head back and groaned. Simon bit his lip and attempted to be the neutral observer Negri had ordered him to be.

Damn was it hard.

“Oliver,” Aral said.

Jole produced a packet of lubricant from a pocket, then kicked off his boots and shimmied out of his trousers. He was already aroused. Simon filed away a note on Jole potentially having exhibitionist tendencies.

Simon grew aware of his own (embarrassing) state of arousal. He crossed his legs. Had years of watching security feeds turned him into a voyeur? The chip would echo back everything. Retirement could not happen soon enough.

“I guess we better put on a show for the Captain, sir,” Jole crooned. It sounded … almost rehearsed. Had they acted out this scenario for Cordelia, as well?

( _“My Captain, my dear Captain,” Aral said, drunk. “Some days it feels like you're the only true conscience I have.”_ )

“Mmm,” Aral agreed, appreciatively gazing at Jole's uniformed torso. He pulled Jole onto his lap and held him by the hips. “So, Lieutenant, would you mind handing me the lube?”

“Here you go, sir,” Jole said and ceremoniously dropped the packet of lubricant into Aral's hand. Aral tore it with his teeth, then used his ungloved hand to slick his cock.

“Your shirt,” Simon said. “Shirts.”

“So concerned about us being found out? Well, it wouldn't do to have the secret revealed too soon. Blackmail material needs to be unrevealed to be effective,” Aral said while Jole unbuttoned both shirts and shrugged out of his own uniform.

“How would you like it today, sir?” Jole asked, still with more than a tinge of putting on a show coloring his voice.

“Come sit in my lap,” Aral said, and Jole – clad only in a pair of black leather gloves, which should have looked ridiculous but didn't – obliged. A bit of manhandling later, Jole was perched up on Aral's lap, Aral's dick was between Jole's buttocks, and Simon was suppressing all emotion by wondering about the structural integrity of what was at the end of the day _his_ chair.

“That position does not look very stable,” he commented. It came out more bitterly than intended. Perhaps he should give up attempting to sound disaffected and instead try for sarcasm. “At least you managed to sit on the chair the right way round, _sir_.”

Aral grunted. He began moving slowly between Jole's buttocks, Jole rubbing himself against Aral's stomach in counterpoint. Simon felt a pang in his stomach and suppressed his expression. He was the spy, omnipresent, invisible, one with the wall, as per Negri's instructions. Perhaps had he been taller, more muscular, more classically masculine, he would be in Jole's place. As it was, the only lie he could tell himself was inevitability. After all, how could a forgettable man who regularly got mistaken for waitstaff hold a candle to Jole's recruiting-poster looks?

His lizard brain refused this tidbit of knowledge. His gaze remained on Aral and Jole, who had now progressed to moaning. The sounds of sex filled the room. The movement of the bodes in front of him was hypnotic.

The performative aspects had now been dropped: it was only Regent and Lieutenant, lost in each other. Aral's gloved hand on Jole's hip, gripping tight. Jole's face buried in Aral's neck. Aral's expression of bliss, intensifying, little sounds of pleasure growing more and more loud and urgent, until Simon had a clear visual of Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan reaching the edge and going over.

Aral soon took Jole's dick in his ungloved hand and kept it there until Jole, too, had left a mess – this one on Aral rather than Simon's chair. A moment for catching his breath, and Jole dismounted, then fished out wipes from his uniform pockets, wiping down Aral's stomach and hand, as well as his buttocks and Simon's chair. Aral re-established himself in his uniform and walked to Simon.

“I do hope that was … sufficient,” he said. He gazed at Simon thoughtfully for a moment, then grasped his chin and tilted it up. The press of leather against his chin sent tingles up Simon's spine, and he could feel the chip archiving this state for later use.

“Gregor will soon be an adult, Captain. Then I shall retire, and your loyalties shall belong only to Gregor. Remember that.” Aral let go of Simon's chin and stroked along Simon's throat. “Perhaps in a few years, you can roll over and place your throat beneath Gregor's boot.”

Jole had finished assembling himself, and was a model of secretarial polish. Aral – well, a slightly crinkled uniform tunic could easily be excused. “Good night, Simon,” Aral said, and he left, Jole at his heels.

“Good night,” Simon croaked to a closing door.

 

In the end, when Simon relieved the tightness in his trousers, the imaginary boot under which he placed his throat was Aral Vorkosigan's alone.


End file.
